"His Royal Highness! His Royal Highness! It's me—the butler. Can I come in?"
Mr. Ray, the butler, had been standing at the prince's door, knocking for more than twenty minutes. He knew better than anyone not to enter the prince's room without permission, but concern was starting to outweigh protocol. What if the prince was sick... or worse?
After receiving no response, he reluctantly pushed the door open and walked in.
The room was empty.
It was six o'clock in the morning. Where could the prince possibly be? Mr. Ray stood there, unsure of what to tell the Queen, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around sharply, startled.
There stood Asher, his cold, stunning face grinning faintly.
The butler was awestruck. He often wondered how long it must have taken the gods to create such a breathtaking creature. Asher was simply too handsome to be real.
"Good morning, Your Highness. The Queen sent for you," the butler said, bowing respectfully.
"Mr. Ray, without being told, I already know why my mother sent for me—and I'm not interested. Go tell her that I won't be available for her marriage discussions. When has my mother ever cared about how I feel? Has she ever treated me kindly? No. All she wants is for me to obey her and marry Nora!"
"Your Highness, with all due respect and without being sentimental or taking sides, I'd like to say what's on my mind. I understand how you feel, but as your mother, I believe the Queen only wants what's best for you. You are the heir to the throne, and in a few months, you'll be twenty seven years old.That's why she wants you to settle down," Mr. Ray said, his mouth trembling. Just looking at Asher's cold face was enough to strike fear into anyone.
After he finished, silence fell like a weight in the room. The atmosphere turned cold and heavy. Minutes passed before Asher finally broke the stillness.
"Go. Tell the Queen I'm coming," he said, his voice low and commanding.
"Yes, Your Highness," Mr. Ray replied, bowing quickly before hurrying out of the room. He could tell Asher was in one of his dark moods and didn't want to risk his wrath.
Asher walked toward the bathroom with graceful steps to prepare himself to see his mother. But his thoughts were clouded with painful memories—memories that still haunted him.
He remembered the day his father, King Lucas, died. Asher was only five years old. Despite his young age, he understood that he would never see his beloved father again. He was scared—terrified—to be left alone with his mother, Queen Evelyn.
He didn't know why, but he was always afraid of her. She punished him harshly, even for the smallest mistakes. That fear taught him to be perfect from a young age. His father, however, had been his safe place—his protector.
On the day of the funeral, Asher saw his father lying inside a golden coffin. Magical flames flickered around the edges. As per witch tradition, witches weren't buried—they were burned into ashes. The ceremony was magnificent.
Asher knew then how difficult life would become for him. He was only five, but his mind was already burdened with the fear of being left with his cold mother.
He watched as the Goddess of the Witches collected his father's ashes in a golden container. Everyone had returned to the castle to mourn, but Asher remained rooted in place. The butler tried to convince him to go inside, but he refused. He couldn't leave the spot.
It was only when the rain began to pour heavily that reality struck him. His father was gone. He fell to his knees in the rain, sobbing helplessly. The skies wept with him.
He was still there when a maid came to fetch him. She said the Queen was calling. He wiped his tears and followed her.
But just as he approached the castle entrance, a strong hand clamped over his mouth. He struggled, but everything turned black.
When he woke up, he found himself tied to a tree in the woods. Two huge men stood nearby. Fear took over his small body. He wanted to cry for his father, but remembered—he was gone.
One of the men pulled his hair and pointed a knife at his throat. Asher shut his eyes tightly, silently praying that the universe would accept his little soul.
Suddenly, he heard loud thuds. "BAM! BAM!"
He opened his eyes to see both men lying unconscious on the ground. A man in his sixties stood in front of him, wielding a staff. He had beaten them all alone.
The man rushed over, untied Asher, and examined the bruises on his hands, legs, and mouth. He pitied the poor child. Asher fainted from exhaustion.
That day, the old man—Mr. Clinton—took him home and raised him as his own.